


Strawberry kisses

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams, Getting Together, I'm a tease, Inspired by engrish.com, Love Potion/Spell, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Magical Realism, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: Sherlock doesn't believe in magic. And the source isn't reliable anyway. So what's the harm in a little love spell?





	Strawberry kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chrwythyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrwythyn/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. A. N. Another story inspired by the engrish website. A very (late, still sorry about that) happy birthday and many, many happy returns, Chrwythyn, love! I hope you like this little silliness.

It’s stupid. So, so stupid. Sherlock found the superstition on a website specifically dedicated to mock the English errors of people from around the world, for crying out loud. But, despite the errors, there is a poetry in the use of imagery, a strength in its tale…and it challenges the readers. “Why don’t you try once tonight if you cannot believe that?”

Well, why not? At worst, it won’t work, and nothing will change. But if it worked…No, of course it won’t work, it’s just as stupid as the apple peels divining your lover’s initial or madness of that ilk. Still, he has some control over his mind palace. If having read this tale means that he manages to have a lucid dream about John (of course it’s John, always John) and lead it on a romantic narrative…well, that might be lovely enough to make trying worth it.

So, the sleuth types a quick, _Need strawberries. Small ones. SH_  On his way back from work, his blogger will undoubtedly pick some up, so there’s no need to go out himself. It’s innocent enough that his flatmate will be relieved rather than question the detective’s sudden craving. There are much more embarrassing things he’s been asked to buy, not to mention the few he had to pilfer instead (these last ones always required much more bartering though).

When he gets home, John’s first words are, “Please tell me the strawberries are for eating. I don’t want to have to look up strawberry stains removal.”

“They are,” Sherlock reassures him, starting immediately to root into the pack for the smallest strawberry of the lot. The others are scattered on the table, and his flatmate sighs the sigh of the resigned.

John manages to catch one that is almost rolling off the table, and rolls his eyes at his friend’s back – the detective got the prize he wanted and bolted, as usual – announcing, “I’ll just have a smoothie, if that’s fine?” Since he never receives a reply, he decides that he’ll just go along with his plan. Sherlock did say that these were for eating. Why couldn’t he eat inside, though?

The consulting detective can’t because of that silly thing he read. It mentioned the spring breeze, and somehow his imagination is so inflamed by the paragraph, that he heads over to Regent’s Park, the tiny red fruit held in his fist like the most precious pearl. He finds a lonely corner, the gentle wind caressing his hair, murmurs John's name dutifully...and for a moment he stops. Is he really going to do this? If anyone discovers it, he’ll be the butt of everyone’s jokes until the end of time. He almost throws the strawberry away…but somehow, it finds its way to his mouth instead. He barely tastes it, trying not to think of what the text said. There’s no way a kiss – much less John’s kiss – tastes anything like it.

When he heads back home, he’s flushed with embarrassment. Hopefully he’s weird enough that his actions won’t be questioned. Thank God, it seems that his (secretly) beloved’s concerns are all doctorly at the moment. The only remark this gets is a stern, “Don’t you think that _that_ counted as eating, now, mister!” Since there’s nothing about it in his source, he obediently eats his dinner a little later.            

He’s tempted to go to sleep right after, to maximise his dreaming time, but a) John would worry, perhaps suspect he’s getting ill, and that can’t be allowed; b)he probably won’t manage to fall asleep this early without a chemical help, and that would raise all kinds of red flags he doesn’t want to deal with. So instead he picks up his violin and lets his feelings flow. The excitement, the shame (how far he’s fallen), and above all the love. Thankfully music is universal…ly misunderstood by people who need things spelt out for them.

When he’s finally tired, he tries to chase away the thought of his ritual, lest nerves stop him from falling asleep. And like magic, the dream comes…

It’s prosaic, as far as dreams go. Sherlock could almost believe he’s not dreaming at all, what with John smiling at him from his armchair, while he’s curled in his own.  It happened so many times, it feels so real. But he remembers it’s a dream. And he remembers what he has to do. “Then you should confess your love to him resolutely.” Damn, even in a dream, his throat wants to clog. That ‘resolutely’ thing is going to take some work. He breaths deeply once, twice. He chickens up…halfway. “Je t’aime, Jéan,” he declares, in perfect, loud French.

“Mmmm? Didn’t quite catch that, sorry,” his blogger asks. Figures that the man wouldn’t make things easy on him by being polyglot.

“John, I love you,” he translates, enunciating it distinctly.

“Oh, of course. Me too, we’re best friends, aren’t we?”  John replies, with a shrug.

Is John trying to be difficult on purpose? Can’t he be compliant even in a dream? The sleuth snaps, “No, John, you don’t get it. I fucking love you.”

The grin spreading on John’s face is almost predatory. “OOoh, you fucking love me? as in voulez-vous coucher avec moi? Why don’t you try with some French I can actually understand?” he says.

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” he parrots, feeling like an idiot.

“Gladly,” John purrs…and of course, that’s when his phone won’t stop ringing. Why can’t murderers respect people’s sleep, for once?  

It makes his blogger chuckle that, for once, his friend is the one cranky about being awakened, but Sherlock has a point. it’s not even murder. Just suicide, which a dear friend disguised as murder because she felt her friend was pushed into it. While this might be debatable, and John has enough experience (unfortunately) to not feel like he can blame her at all, seeing Sherlock rant at police for missing the obvious is too entertaining to curtail.

The rest of the day is good, and John is afraid it is because it started with a case, no matter how many hypochondriacs he meets at work. Is he turning into Sherlock too? Should he be concerned? …oh well, it’s not like the consulting detective is a bad person anyway.

That evening, though, should have been trying. He comes back home fully expecting the sleuth to be either in rant-mode or straight sulking. Instead, his friend sounds studiously normal…which is always worrying. And he seems to have suddenly developed an interest in his sleep cycles, if the random questions are anything to go by.

John sighs deeply. That’s it, he’s been drugged again. He would complain, and point out how his sleep is messed up enough as it is, without anyone meddling. Instead, he just hopes for the best. Only, in lieu of saying goodnight the former captain reminds his flatmate that if he tries to sleep-shoot (not that it ever happened, but God knows what he’s been dosed with) he expects Sherlock to do something about it.  

Knowing he would be yelled at for skewing the experiment’s results, John doesn’t try to avoid falling asleep, or do anything but what he feels like. The results are, honestly, better than he hoped. He knows what lucid dreams are, obviously. They never happened to him before, but it’s not unwelcome. Especially not when Sherlock is in it, purring, “Where did we leave off,” in his ear.

What the heck, it’s a dream. He raises an eyebrow and counters, “The question is: why did we leave off at all?”

That makes dream-Sherlock pout. “Because Lestrade can’t still see the obvious. I thought I trained him better!”

John laughs at that. He can’t help it. “Oh well. I’m sure he’ll get there eventually. Now, what were you interested in?”

“In you knowing I love you – not in the friendly way. And what comes after that. I’ve been led to believe kissing should be involved…for a start,” the sleuth rumbles.

Well, who’s John to deny him that? Especially in a dream. His own dream, sure, but – details. Without any more words, they’re kissing, all his usually restrained passion unleashed. It’s a dream. It’s allowed. He doesn’t need to worry. And if their hands stray further – he wouldn’t know whose explored first, and in his mind, he’s not sure it counts anyway – or if he discovers an experimental penchant of his own (namely, a study about how many sounds he can elicit from his companion), well, it’s all good. Very good.

Of course, Murphy’s law still applies. He’s just getting to the good part, after classifying groan number seven, when they’re very rudely interrupted by an alarm clock. His own. He would have sworn he had all night...but he’s unlucky enough that it makes sense for this delicious dream to have started at dawn. What did he expect? He tries to catch the last wisps of the dream, before having to get up…though that might be a bad idea given that he might have to interact with a flesh and body flatmate, which he’s pointedly not being snogging, as soon as he gets downstairs. Damn it. He doesn’t want to lose this blissful feelings.

Patients aren’t going to visit themselves though, so John throws a robe on, groans loudly – in _disappointment_ – and drags himself to the kitchen (luckily empty of consulting detective). Well, there’s nothing for it. He puts the kettle on and the toaster, too. He can’t go to work on an empty stomach and be expected to function.     

Of course, that is when Sherlock comes in, fresh out of shower, apparently having decided a sheet will do as well for a bathrobe. Has John forgotten to do the laundry? He can’t remember. At the moment, with the sheet clinging to his flatmate’s damp body, and partially trailing after him like a king’s mantle, his brain is completely offline.

“Morning,” the detective drawls, and then, of course, the damning question. “Did you sleep well?” Too sharp, sea-nuanced eyes on him.

John replies, “Great, ta,” but his eyes tries to fix on anything but Sherlock. The git probably knows full well the kind of dreams he had, but hopefully he can hide who was the star.

Milk. He needs milk for the tea. Great excuse.

Having his (other) hand grabbed by long fingers is par for the course in this household, it’s not like the madman ever had any boundaries. Well, not exactly his hand. More like his wrist. Still, John tries to act on autopilot and ignore his flatmate. Maybe that’ll annoy him enough to make him leave. He does get something out of the fridge, and pours it into his tea, at any rate.

“Your heart rate is elevated…especially for someone just waking up,” Sherlock pronounces. John tries to reclaim his hand, but the lovely git’s fingers won’t budge. “Now, what reason could you have for it first thing in the morning?”

John is this close to announcing normal humans experience something universally known as ‘morning wood’, which the genius might have deleted. But making embarrassing statements is more the detective’s department, and with Sherlock way too close, and apparently opting for a staring contest now (John feels as if he’s staring into his own soul), he can’t. He chugs his tea and sputters. What did he…oh. The leftover from the smoothie of the other day. He’d made too much as usual, thinking the other might want some too.

“Arousal, John?” the detective purrs, before adding, “And why wouldn’t my presence have killed it yet?”

At that, the blogger can’t help it. He laughs, pointing at Sherlock’s figure. “Did you ever _look_ at yourself?”

That, for some reason, makes Sherlock blink. “Yes?” It sounds tentative. He can’t be serious, can he?

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re sex on legs. Miles-long legs. Not exactly the best wood-killer,” John admits. Bit not good, that. But maybe it’ll make the gorgeous idiot finally hightail out of here.

“And you’re not gay,” the sleuth counters, almost accusing.

“Bi,” the doctor confesses, “and not blind. Not that it needs to change anything, you know.”

“But if I want? If I want to change? Would you…?” Sherlock can’t make himself finish that sentence.

Well, there’s no need to, because John’s fervent “God yes,” is clearly a blanket permission for this, and that, and anything the other has ever thought, dreamt or fantasized.

Who knew. Magic works…and first kisses really taste faintly of strawberry.      

**Author's Note:**

> Here is what Sherlock saw: 


End file.
